


Left Without Walls

by paradiamond



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Lots of stress, M/M, Panic Attacks, Robert POV, bed sharing, post 4.01, the mutual support fic not asked for, townhull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 23:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: After his harrowing interview with Arnold and Simcoe, Robert runs to Woodhull’s farm without knowing why.





	Left Without Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Back again, can't stop won't stop. There has been an alarming amount of opportunity for Townhull content this season. This one is about mutually freaking out and supporting each other through the fun time of being a spy, but also snarking and being super repressed.

The wind blows strong, rustling the trees and cutting him straight to the bone. An otherworldly glow lights up the land, originating from the moon which shines bright, like a blue lantern. The unreality of it is striking, compounding the sense of being somewhere he shouldn’t be.

Robert shivers, still standing in front of the door. He needs to knock, or turn around and leave. He needs to do something, but he can’t move. It feels as though his muscles had locked down after riding so far for so long, all the way from York city again, the second time in a month. The sun had gone down while he rode, making him realize that he’d forgotten his cape, which was likely one of the many reasons Rivington had looked at him so strangely when he left, making his hurried excuses. A fictional letter from his father, telling of worsening health.

Then he was gone, out in the streets, the open highway, here. This time he avoided the town, making straight for Woodhull’s farm in what was quickly becoming the dead of night. He remembered the path by heart despite only being once before, when he came to pass on vital intelligence and tacitly forgive Woodhull without actually saying anything on the subject. The bones of the house had developed into more of a shell since he’d been away. Someone, likely Woodhull, had been hard at work in building it while living in the much smaller cabin Robert now stares at, a growing dread building in his stomach.

The door stares back at him, completely unforgiving.

Then there’s blinding light, and no door, and Woodhull is standing there, gaping at him like an idiot.

“What- Townsend?”

“You’re here,” Robert says, and then immediately frowns. He’s not usually ridiculous, but the last time they saw one another had been here as well, weeks ago. Since then, Robert had resolved to quit the ring, drank rum with Rivington, and then thrown himself back in, apparently unable to stay away.

Woodhull mirrors him, leaning close. “Me? You’re here, Robert.”

When Robert fails to respond, Woodhull takes his arm and pulls him inside. The cabin is decently warm, certainly nicer than the outside, but Robert still feels cold to the bone, and distant from what’s happening around him, as though watching a scene in a play. Woodhull leads him to a chair and sits him down in it like he’s an invalid, and all the while Robert doesn’t say a word.

Woodhull drops into the mismatched chair next to him, elbows on his knees and eyes fixed on Robert’s face. “What happened?”

Robert breathes, slowly. His heart had slowed considerably from its previous rapid pace, turning into a stone inside him, weighing him down. The pressure is immense.

“Robert,” Woodhull tries again, speaking slowly. “Are we in immediate danger?”

That wakes him up, somewhat. “No.”

Woodhull nods, cracking a smile. “Ok. Are we in imminent danger?”

Robert breathes carefully and thinks, trying not to watch Woodhull watch him. After a long moment, he shakes his head. Woodhull nods. “Ok, good. Anything else can wait until morning, right?”

The unpleasant feeling of being treated like a child creeps over him. Robert hadn’t even liked being treated this way when he was one.

He drops his eyes. “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t be here. I’ll go.”

Woodhull stares at him, no doubt waiting for him to stand. He doesn’t. His throat is starting to close up, just like it had in his room, surrounded on all sides by soldiers, the walls closing in. He’d sunk into his chair by the fire and not moved until he jumped, scrambling to get away, to get here.

“Wait until morning,” Woodhull says, slowly. Then he stands, flitting over to the window. “Did you tie your horse up?”

Robert wants to say something smart, throw his words back in his face like he’d done a hundred times before. Instead, he picks at the plain fabric of his trousers, desperately trying to remember the answer. Nothing is forthcoming.

Wodhull hums. “I’ll just go check.”

Robert nods, but Woodhull is already out the door in a flurry of movement. It closes with a thud, the well worn wood absorbing most of the sound, making it dulled, as though it closed under water. Robert sighs and slumps in his seat, his back tired and sore from the ride, from how straight he had held it all day.

The air is still and quiet, reminding Robert for the first time that Woodhull has a family, somewhere. He frowns, looking around. Clearly not here. There are piles of paper on the table and dirty boots by the stove. No women had been in this house for a long while.

The door opens again, and Woodhull steps back in, already talking, the words pouring out of his mouth at a rapid rate. “It’s a good thing you caught me on a building day, I’m up at the house a lot now ever since my father decided to come around. You’d like him, or maybe you wouldn’t, I don’t know.”

Robert blinks up at him. “Pardon?”

Woodhull shakes his head, eyes flickering from the papers, to Robert, the window, and back. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”

He doesn’t say whether or not the horse had been tied up, which likely means it hadn’t been. Robert rubs a hand over his eyes. “I apologize.”

“For what?”

Robert drops his hand and glares. “Being here.”

“Oh.” Woodhull waves a hand. “It’s alright, we all get- well. It’s fine.”

White hot embarrassment courses through Robert’s veins, and he looks away.

Woodhull continues on like nothing is amiss, moving papers and dropping his mug into the sink. “We should go to bed.”

Robert can’t even muster up the energy to nod as he drags himself up. By chance, he catches sight of himself in the window and sees that he’s still wearing his hat. Scowling, he all but rips it off, clutching it tightly in his hand.

“What’d it do to you?” Woodhull asks, laughing too loudly, then picks up the candle to bring over to the bed, which is maybe five steps away in the corner. The entire space can’t be bigger than Robert’s room at the coffeehouse and it contains kitchen, living, and sleeping space. Robert follows in silence, still mangling the hat.

“So, we used to have a spare bed, a whole spare room, but obviously we’ve done a bit of downsizing,” Woodhull jokes, then gets serious again. “I’m rebuilding the house while Mary and Thomas are at Whitehall.”

Robert nods as though he understands, which he doesn’t. But it doesn’t matter. He drops down onto the bed and works on pulling his shoes off, letting the mindlessness of the task take over the way it sometimes does when he’s late on the inventory and working deep into the night. It has to get done, so it will.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he looks up to see Woodhull staring at him from the other side of the small room.

“I can sleep on the floor if you want.”

Robert blinks at him, trying not to show that he doesn’t understand. He’s so tired it’s like hearing every third word and trying to piece together a story from the scraps. But then his mind catches up with itself. One bed.

He looks away, working the buttons open on his outer vest. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Sure?”

Robert can only nod. His mouth is suddenly so dry he doubts he could make a sound even if he wanted to. And all he wants now is to sleep, to fade into the darkness with something solid at his back. Maybe that’s why he came.

Woodhull makes a vague sound and starts moving around the room, the nervous energy erupting once again. He had barely been still once since Robert had arrived. It makes Robert dizzy to watch, so he closes his eyes, half undressed and sitting on the edge of Woodhull’s bed.

“Alright. I’ll lend you a nightshirt,” Woodhull says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Thank you”, Robert manages, and tries not to look at him as he passes it over. They get undressed and redressed in surreal silence. Robert wonders how often Woodhull sleeps in this tiny cabin that he has a full wardrobe. He certainly hadn’t brought his family here, not intentionally. They hadn’t been here the last time either.

Two homes? Robert frowns. Unlikely for a farmer. His father’s home, Robert realizes. Whitehall. That’s what Woodhull meant.

“Still need the light?”

Robert shakes his head, rudely staring at the floor. Woodhull pays him no mind, blowing out the candle and dropping down onto the bed too, breathing quietly, and, Robert thinks, not laying down but sitting. Watching him. Some of the earlier fear returns, out of place and coupled with paranoia. He fights to keep his own breath even, and does not succeed, his hand clenched tight on his knees, fingernails digging in.

“I-” Robert says, and then has to closes his mouth, swallow, and start again. “I destroyed all the ink.”

Woodhull doesn’t respond, but shifts closer on the bed, moving in inches, warning him ahead of time. Robert feels sick.

“The invisible ink. I’ll- I’ll need more.”

“Alright.” Woodhull’s hand finally makes contact with his arm, sliding up to his shoulder and putting the barest pressure. “Tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“Lay down.”

Robert nods but doesn’t move. The fingers on his shoulder tighten and then relax.

“I’m not going to touch you if that’s-”

“No! It’s- I didn’t think that. It’s alright,” Robert says, beyond embarrassment. It seems like the only thing he can feel is Woodhull’s hand on his shoulder, not the floor beneath his feet, not the sheet under his hand. And all he wants in the world is to sleep.

“Alright.” Woodhull tugs on his shoulder, pulling him down, all the way down, until his head hits softness. He closes his eyes.

Next to him, Woodhull shifts down as well, staying close but not too close. It’s a very small bed. His arm wraps around Robert’s waist, like he’s holding him up. And from the feeling of breath near his face, Robert can tell that they’re laying face to face. He shifts his knees forward, slowly, until he reaches Woodhull’s, just barely bringing them together. Woodhull’s hand tightens on his back, and it seems like he might say something, but Robert falls into sleep before he hears what it is.

***

When he wakes up, he’s on his back with his right hand resting on his sternum, his usual sleeping position. But his left arm is laying off the side, pinned under something. He blinks and turns his head, both curious and irritated. Woodhull is there, face mostly buried in the pillow they’d shared, turned onto his front with his right arm wedged under the pillow and his left bent at the elbow, pinning Robert’s arm, with his hand resting near Robert’s ribs, fingers curled.

Robert takes in a careful breath and looks away, up at the ceiling. It stares back at him, orderly and blank. Still, there’s a large crack between the boards near the wall, and several small holes. He frowns up at them. Surely there was no way Woodhull spends any significant amount of time here, unless prison had lowered his standards irreparably.

“What happened to your house?” Robert asks, and then immediately realizes that Woodhull is still asleep.

Woodhull grumbles, curling in on himself a bit before straightening back out. “What?”

“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Robert says, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“The house?” Woodhull opens one eye at him. “My wife burned it down after I killed the soldier billeted here.”

Robert stares up, through the little holes. The sky is blue, not a cloud that he can see.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Woodhull says, pushing himself up part of the way, still slumped against the headboard. “Oh. It’s been a long time, and a lot has been happening since you left.”

“A lot was happening when I was here,” Robert says, remembering Simcoe. Threatening to burn the town to the ground, charging into his father’s house after Rogers, and sitting calmly across from him, staring. The images sit incongruously in his mind, each superimposed over the other.

“What’s been happening in York city though?” Woodhull asks, clearly thinking that he’s going to have some reason for being here, for obviously running away, and he simply doesn’t.

“Nothing in particular.”

“Ok,” Woodhull says, carefully.

Robert pointedly ignores the tone, and they lapse into comfortable silence. Outside, the wind blows through the trees, and somewhat into the cabin. Woodhull breathes beside him, slow and even, though his fingers tap against his thigh, active even in rest. It's a Sunday.

“I should be at the gathering now,” Robert says, to the ceiling.

Woodhull smiles. “I think you can get a pass just this once.”

Robert turns his head to squint at him. “Do you not go to church?”

Woodhull makes a face. “I did. Less and less over the years, and then when the regulars showed up they ripped the pulpit out and the Major turned it into stables.”

Robert’s eyebrows shoot up, intensely and irrationally offended after everything else he’d seen. Woodhull snickers.

“Like I said, lovely town.”

“It is, actually. Or it was.”

Robert shakes his head, starting feel the strangeness of still being in the bed. “Do you not have anywhere you have to be?”

Woodhull cranes his neck to look out the window. “Crops are still there. House is still standing, more or less.”

Robert rolls his eyes.

“I’m not the one with the business. What’d you tell them anyway? This isn’t the first time you’ve left in the night.”

“Worried about Culper Jr.’s position?”

“Yes, but I’m more worried about Townsend, he scares easily,” Woodhull teases, but there’s real emotion there Robert doesn’t want to engage with now.

“I don’t, actually,” he sighs and swings his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. It’s easier now, in the light of day and after part of a night’s rest. “I told them I received a letter from my father, that he was unwell.”

Woodhull makes an approving sound. “That’ll work.”

“Yes, especially since it’s partly true.”

“Well the best lies are based in truth,” Woodhull muses, and then makes a distressed sound, his mind catching up with his mouth. “What do you mean? Is Samuel not well?”

“Not especially.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Woodhull says, so sincerely that Robert has to close his eyes. He stays like that as Woodhull gets up and crawls out of the bed from the bottom, walking around to Robert’s side. “Come on, let's get some food.”

Robert sighs and pushes himself up, giving in to the reasonable nature of the request.

***

“I do apologize for dropping in like this.”

“What, again?” Woodhull grins at him, eyes shining as he sets down mismatched plates of cold food. He's wearing his clothes from yesterday, but then so is Robert. It's difficult to criticize him when he's gone and put himself at the disadvantage. Still, he does his best.

Robert sends him a dark look and sits delicately in the chair Woodhull had taken the night before. “Yes.”

“It’s fine, again.” Woodhull drops into his seat, and immediately sets about divvying up the food. “Sure you don’t want to go up to the main house? Food would be better. And you don’t have to worry about exposure there, I just brought Caleb not a week ago.”

“And then the rebels came and burned the hay, I know.” Robert picks at the cheese, eying Woodhull. “I’d rather not experience the extra scrutiny that must have brought.”

The thought of any scrutiny at all make his heart pick up, his palms sweat. He’d rather eat cold food in a drafty cabin than risk it. Woodhull hums, eyes on his own food.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks, carefully, as if Robert might explode at any moment.

Robert grits his teeth and throws the question back. “What about you?”

Woodhull frowns at him. “Me?”

“Yes, you. I’ve watched you fidget and flit about all morning, and last night.”

“Oh,” Woodhull waves a hand. “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” Robert says, but restrains himself from a more specific description. Talk of mania doesn’t go well with breakfast, he just wants Woodhull to leave him alone.

Woodhull waves a hand, again, in the exact same manner. “Caleb said the same thing. Maybe I’m just reinvigorated. My father is on my side for once, the ring is still whole. Besides,” he shrugs. “I hear near death experiences will do that.”

Robert freezes. “What near death experience?”

Woodhull blinks at him, his cup half raised. He lowers it. “You don’t know.”

“Of course not. How would I-”

“Ah, well.” Woodhull runs a hand through his hair, looking away for the first time. “The short version is Simcoe.”

He laughs, but Robert doesn’t join him, especially not as Woodhull starts to go into the long version. He glosses over the details of the hanging, of course, but Robert sees them anyway. He’d been to public executions before, had seen the way the body swings, and the feet kick. The neck breaks.

Robert listens intently, feeling a now familiar coldness creep over him. He has trouble gripping his fork, his fingers stiff with it, the ice locking his joints and bones. It seems real, as though the temperature had actually dropped.

Dizziness finds him, even while sitting down. How long until he would have heard? He might not know even now, likely wouldn’t have found out until he knocked on the door last night and no one answered. What would he have done then? Gone into town to find an inn? Heard the news from some gossiping stranger? There's no way he could have gone to the house then, not without revealing himself, no way to pay his respects or-

Woodhull’s hand lands on his. “Robert? I said, are you alright?”

Robert blinks and pulls his hand back. “Yes, of course.”

“Of course. Ok.” Woodhull rubs a hand over his face. “You know I worry about you, right?”

That, of all things, startles a laugh of out him. “Really?”

Woodhull doesn’t laugh. “Yes.”

“It rather seems that it should be the other way around.”

Frustratingly, Woodhull shrugs. “I guess that depends on what happened.”

Robert looks away. “Nothing happened, not really.”

For once, Woodhull doesn’t respond, isn’t chomping at the bit for his turn to speak. It leaves Robert to his own devices in his own time, picking at his thumbnail, looking at the grain of the wooden table.

“Simcoe came to the tavern.”

At the mere mention of the name, Woodhull goes very, very still. Robert can’t even hear him breathe. He takes a deep breath himself and continues. “He sat in on an interview Benedict Arnold conducted with me, concerning a suspected spy, Hercules Mulligan, who had just been arrested.”

The silence stretches between them again, unbroken until Robert chooses to disrupt it. Normally, Woodhull never stops talking. Strange, he muses privately, since he can’t even properly enjoy it.

“I did not give anything away. Still, Simcoe watched me the entire time.”

At this, Woodhull makes a noise, a sort of hum, or a growl. Robert looks up and meets his eyes, finds them intense, fearful and angry both. Trapped. Protective.

“Nothing happened,” Robert clarifies, feeling ridiculous all over again. Here he is, running from a look, and Woodhull was nearly killed. There is still rope burn on his neck. There are men out there who every day run towards danger, and here he is. “I left, went up to my room, and disposed of the evidence.”

“Then you came here,” Woodhull says, finally, tapping on the table. Fidgeting again. Robert wants to reach over and physically stop him. He could, Woodhull apparently has no problem with them touching, but he doesn’t.

“Then I came here,” Robert confirms.

Woodhull nods and looks away. The tension in his shoulders is such that Robert fears he’ll hurt himself, and his fingers itch to reach out, to touch and sooth. He keeps his hands in his lap.

“Alright,” Woodhull says, at length. “Do you want to keep going?”

Robert blinks. “What?”

“With the ring.”

“I knew what you-” Robert rubs a hand over his face, the old familiar irritation building up again. “All that, everything you did, and you just offer a way out?”

Woodhull has the gall to look offended. “Well I never meant to trap you, just to encourage you. If you feel-”

“No.” Robert slowly shakes his head, coldly furious. “I want to keep going.”

“I talked to Caleb about cutting you out,” Woodhull says, and then winces.

Robert scoffs. “What?”

“I talked to him about...finding a way to communicate directly, so that you didn’t have to be-”

“I am the one who provides the vast majority of the information, Woodhull, so I don’t know what you-”

“Abraham.”

Robert blinks, caught off guard. “You- alright. But you need what I can provide.”

Woodhull glares. “I know.”

“Then what?” Robert demands, waiting for Woodhull, or Abraham, to tell him again that he’s weak, that he needs looking our for.

Abraham quiets, still watching Robert intently. “Would you tell me? If it was too much?”

“Would you?”

Abraham shakes his head, cracking a smile. “Always, with that.”

“Turnabout is fair play.”

“That’s true,” Abraham says, and pushes his plate away with an air of finality. Robert lets his shoulders drop, a little. He watches Abraham watch him for a few breaths before Abraham gives up and glances out the window, as he had done every few minutes since they sat down. Robert follows his gaze.

“The rebuild is going well then?”

Abraham raises his eyebrows. “Well it hasn’t fallen down, so, I guess it is.”

“Why?”

Abraham blinks at him. “What?”

“Why rebuild the house? You said yourself that your father had come around, and surely you’ll inherit Whitehall when he passes.”

“Whitehall is for-” Abraham blinks, shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“Your brother.”

“It was, obviously not anymore. Old habits die hard.”

“But they do die. You don’t need a farm house.”

“Yes, but maybe I want a farm house.”

“Why?” Robert asks, for the second time. “If you insist on keeping this land, which you will not need, you can simply renovate this cabin. Instead you’re building a family home from the ashes.”

Abraham frowns at him. “Well you-”

“Not me. You.”

Abraham straightens up, a hard glint in his eye, and Robert is hit with a wave of deja vu. The draughts game. Challenges and barely hidden double meanings. He would prefer that it not end like their last one. Neither of them have anywhere to run to but the trees.

Robert looks away, dropping the challenge for a kinder one. “It reminds me of a favorite verse. ‘A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls.’”

Abraham cracks a smile. “Proverbs.”

“But which one?”

He huffs out a laugh. “25:28. Do you think I could have gotten away with not knowing that in my house?”

“I’ve never been to your house. Any of them,” Robert says, even though he knows that Abraham meant his father. Robert may not know him, but he knows the type. Abraham rolls his eyes but leans back into the chair. They lapse back into silence, the dance done for the time being.

***

“When do you need to be back?” Abraham asks when he steps back inside from checking on the horses and, Robert is pretty sure, briefly scouting the perimeter like some kind of boy soldier.

Robert turns from the window and frowns, feeling the outside world creep in like a physical presence between them. “I shouldn’t be gone at all,” he admits.

“Right.” Abraham nods, a note of regret in his voice. It echoes in Robert, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up, the way it did the night Abraham visited his room, the night he was arrested, a hundred years ago.

Strangely, even for him, Abraham doesn’t immediately set about helping him leave, but sits back down at the table. He's calm, much more so than he had been. Robert follows him, taking the opposite chair. When Abraham leans in close, intensity in his gaze, Robert’s heart jumps to his throat.

“Robert, we can’t be friends.”

The admission strikes Robert deep, setting off a chain reaction of raw emotion. He could not have given voice to it first, not if they knew each other fifty years, but he hadn't had to. A now familiar swirling depth opens up to answer Abraham’s fire. Intuition, or the light of God, as they sometimes say. He had long gotten used to trusting his instincts, both in business, and in other aspects of his life.

“I know.” Robert reaches over the table to take his hand, drawing his thumb over the softness of the back of his hand, feeling the roughness of his palm against his fingers. He had known for a long time, maybe even since the first time.

Abraham takes in a sharp breath, and blinks at him, high spots of color appearing on his cheeks. “I- I meant because no one can know we know each other, not until it’s over.”

Robert goes absolutely still, mortified, and immediately tries to takes his hand back. Abraham closes his fingers around his, squeezing hard, trying to stop him. “Wait-”

But Robert is already up and out of the chair, wrenching his hand away, hopefully reminding him that he’s not as weak as he knows he looks. There’s nowhere to move in the ridiculous house, and as soon as Robert makes the wrong turn away from the door instead of towards it, Abraham has him in a corner, which is fitting, and just as well.

For all his slightness, Abraham is no weakling either, and easily takes him by the shoulders, turns him around. Robert stares back at him defiantly, unwilling to crack even under this, of all things.

“Wait,” Abraham insists, much quieter, and leans forward to kiss Robert on the mouth.

Robert freezes again, his arms lead at his sides, heart frozen in his chest. He expects a fight, waits for Abraham to bite at his lips, to push and prod until Robert gives in. But instead he holds himself soft, pressing gently, turning his face from one side to the other to better match them up as he sucks lightly at Robert’s bottom lip. Robert’s eyes drift shut. There’s nothing to fight against, and so he has no need to fight. Abraham’s hands shift from Robert’s shoulders to wrap around his back, holding him tightly.

Robert puts his hands on Abraham’s chest, a token resistance that quickly turns into nothing less than an exploration, moving from chest to shoulders to the back of Abraham’s neck, pulling him in when he starts to move away. Robert opens his mouth, an invitation that Abraham takes, the familiar initiative and overeager edge making Robert smile. Then he drifts, letting his fingers wander and evaporating into the sensation, leaving the rest behind.

Abraham turns his face away to break the kiss, so Robert tips his face to his neck, unwilling to disengage and break the spell.

“Robert.” Abraham shrugs, jostling Robert to the point that he has to straighten up, glaring. But Abraham doesn’t let him get far, keeping him within the circle of his arms even as Robert pushes back against them.

“We do know each other. And when it’s over,” he leans back and tips his head, makes Robert meet his eyes. “When it’s over, we can be friends.”

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Robert responds, aching with honesty and repressed need. The want claws at him, making his fingers itch to slide down Abraham’s spine and his stomach muscles tighten.

Abraham grins. “Well, we’ll figure it out then.”

“Just like that?”

Abraham inches forward, slowly pushing them back, towards the wall. He grins. “Just like that.”

Abraham is shorter than him, and Robert might never have known with the way he acts, it if not for the way he leans up to kiss him again, his face tipped up.

Robert’s back hits the wall, and in an instant Abraham is bracketing him in with a leg pushed between his own and his arms caught around his waist and shoulders. There’s no space between them, and the hard lines of Abraham’s body set off an instinctive sort of pleasure, his body responding promptly, following a buried instinct Robert hadn't known.

They had gotten dressed before eating, a decision Robert regrets until he feels Abraham’s hands at his shirt buttons, working them open slowly, luxuriously. The sunlight drifting in through the window should make him feel filthy, rebellious. When Abraham trips over his own hands pulling Robert’s shirt out from it’s proper tucked in place and whimpers into his mouth when he gets his hands on Robert’s skin, he feels wicked and wanted instead.

Tavern talk that he had privately scoffed at drifts back to him. The primal joy of unwrapping a gift, of giving something in return. The practiced way Abraham moves speaks to an experience that causes something ugly to rear up in Robert’s heart, dark jealousy that suffuses under the weight of reason. It’s not new, the sensation of Abraham provoking unsavory or uncouth emotions in him, ones that lead him to taunt a man about his dead brother and disparage his wife. But they come full circle as they always do, calling him to rise above, to offer another game, another kiss, instead of turning him away.

Abraham’s hands tighten on Robert’s hips a moment before he rolls his pelvis against him, the hard lines drawing attention to the state of them both and the feel of it making them gasp. He makes Robert feel the way they match up together, the urgency taking hold. All the while the heat pool between them, the unexpected rush of a fantasy finally coming to life.

He imagines Abraham pulling him down to the small bed, the smell of them still soft on the sheets. Stripping off their remaining clothes, hair coming mostly undone in the process. Running his hands over the skin he never gets to see, feeling Abraham’s hands on more of his own skin that never, ever gets touched. Abraham spreading Robert out on his back, his legs as spread as possible in the small space. Maybe one would hang off the bed, maybe Abraham would laugh at him and Robert would roll his eyes before pulling him down for another kiss, feeling his skin and sweat and his hardness pressed to Robert’s thigh, hot and demanding.

Robert would feel desperate, receptive, demanding in his own way as Abraham licks down his collarbones, pauses at his chest, ending at the inevitable, something he’s never felt before.

In reality, Abraham shifts to grip at his rear, and Robert feels lit up with the possibilities, mind moving faster than his hands can keep up with. Fingers opening him up, Abraham perched between his legs, eyes closed as he sinks inside, reckless with his loudness. They'd fall into each other, Robert’s legs wrapped around Abraham’s hips, keeping him more or less in place as he loses himself, driving Robert to the edge and throwing him over. Slickness between them, dry comments, sleep, this time really together, holding on.

Abraham moans in his ear, rocking against him again, more caught in the moment than the possibility. Really it’s the best choice, since it’s a potential they can’t bring to fruition, not now. They don’t have the time, and even if they did, then what? That more than anything makes Robert’s blood run cold, even as he kisses Abraham again, and feels him pause. Their time could run out at any moment. He lets his head drop against the wall, and is absurdly grateful when Abraham immediately notices.

“What’s wrong?” Abraham whispers, despite the fact that they’re all alone. His face is very close to Robert’s face, standing in stark relief to the rest of their surroundings.

Everything. But Robert can’t respond, more unmoored than he can ever remember feeling. Arousal is layered over fear over broken pride and dangerous hope. It’s too much. He closes his eyes, and is only made aware of the fact that he’d let a tear fal when he feel Abraham’s fingers brush his cheeks. He scoffs, but it’s like breaking the seal, and so he cries, silently, but unwillingly, tears dropping down his cheeks in spite of him. To spite him.

Abraham gentles him, speaking softly, pulling him back to the bed where Robert had wanted to be just moments before under much different circumstances.

“It’s alright,” he says, drawing up close behind him, chest to back, but at least doing him the kindness of not looking at his face.

“It’s not.”

“I probably shouldn’t have- You were threatened.”

“So were you,” Robert huffs. “Yet I’m the only one.”

“Because I can’t.”

“What?” That distracts Robert enough to crane his neck back, trying to get a look at him, though Abraham avoids his eyes. Coward, Robert thinks viciously, and immediately feels ridiculous when Abraham touches his face again.

“I can’t. I haven’t, not since…” Abraham trails off. “Christ, I don’t even know. I’ve wanted to.”

Robert rolls all the way around, putting them face to face again, like they were last night. As it so often does, curiosity distracts him, trumping all of Robert’s other motivations, which might have been Abraham’s plan all along. “Why?”

“It’s not, I mean, I didn’t want to cry. But when you can’t it just panics you. I’ll have these awful-” He shakes his head, tipping it back so that the sunlight catches on a strange straight scar across his forehead that Robert had never noticed before. “Are you alright?”

It’s less a selfless gesture than a poorly done evasion. Robert narrows his eyes, which feel puffy and irritated. “Yes, fine. Awful what?”

Now it’s Abraham who refuses to meet his eyes, reaching over to play with Robert’s open shirt collar, stroking the soft skin under his collarbone. Robert does him one better by raising his hand to stroke his thumb along the nearly faded scar, making him shiver.

“I don’t know. It feels...like getting stuck in the water. Most of the time I get caught on the anger, it’s like a can’t reach any of the rest of it.”

Robert shifts closer to wrap his arm around Abraham’s back, not bothering to check his impulses since he’s already partly undressed and in bed with another man, even if it is under distinctly nonsexual and rather unattractive circumstances. Abraham insinuates himself fully into Robert’s space, looking about as ridiculous as Robert feels, but at least his face isn’t tear stained. Still, Robert can’t deny that he feels calmer, better even.

“I’ll make you cry.”

Abraham lets out a startled laugh, mostly into Robert’s neck. “You’re probably the one who could, I’ll give you that.”

Robert hums, settling in while knowing the he should be getting up instead. They need to get redressed before someone comes looking for him. But Abraham had tangled their legs together, and he doesn’t wish to go.

“Are you still in?”

Robert sighs. “I already told you I was, and I prefer not to repeat myself.”

Abraham makes a face. “I told you that you didn’t have to. I’m just checking.”

Robert counts to five, slowly. Really, they don’t need to fight. “Fine. Yes, I’m still in.”

“Fine. You’ll need more supplies.”

Embarrassment courses through him. “Unfortunately.”

“If your biggest mistake is this fixable, I think you’re doing alright. It’s not like we need to rebuild your house,” he teases, evidently trying to be nice.

Or burn a dead soldier, Robert thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he pushes back a bit, preparing to stand. Abraham’s hands had been drifting along his back, along his skin, for the entire conversation. Now he tightens his grip, his blunt nails just digging in.

“Maybe I could bring them to you. The ink and supplies, I mean.”

Roberts hesitates. It’s an engaging idea, along with the things they could do if they saw each other more often. Sneaking around at night, silent exchanges sealed with a kiss. Serving Abraham a drink and pretending not to know him, picking up a covert message as he pays his bill, a secret in his smile as he leaves. Robert wants it. Badly.

“No,” he says, carefully, testing the word and finding it to be correct. “We should go through my father. Stick to the plan.”

Abraham sighs. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

With great reluctance, they get up, and Robert feels the sudden distance between them like a wall. He regards it with distaste, and Abraham laughs like he knows what he’s thinking. They step together again, one more time.

Abraham kisses him, this time more calmly. He pulls away, but keeps Robert’s face in his hands. “After?”

Robert tightens his grip on Abraham’s body, irrationally wanting to leave marks, proof that he had been here. He lets go. “After.”

He gathers up his few belongs in silence, waiting for the tension to hit, the anxiety creeping up his spine like a spider. It doesn’t come. Abraham hands him some provisions, quietly efficient, and follows him to the door.

“If you ever feel out of control,” Robert trails off, holding the door open with one hand. Abraham watches him, avid and too aware, the light in his eyes too bright again. Robert is worried already. “Don’t be like me. Stay here.”

Abraham laughs, loud and infectious. The sound is too loud for the environment and he looks absolutely ridiculous. Robert shakes his head at him and steps through the door, past the bones of the new house and back into real life.

**Author's Note:**

> A man without self-control is like a city broken into and left without walls. Proverbs 25:28
> 
> Paradiamond.tumblr.com (:


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